


Thought You Knew

by machka



Series: Anodyne [2]
Category: Bandom: Axium, Real Person Fiction, Tulsa Gangstas
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-03
Updated: 2009-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-20 01:53:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/207534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/machka/pseuds/machka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You seem to be the only one to like what you see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thought You Knew

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prequel to _Anodyne_ , for those of you familiar with it -- Jeff thought I should tell his side of the story. So I did. From his POV. :)
> 
> Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. The events described therein are not intended to represent actual events. No libel or defamation is intended in posting said fictitious work.
> 
> In other words, it's not real, because I made it all up.

You've been watching him for a while now, for years; long enough to imagine you've got him all figured out... But you've only actually been friends for about six months, and you're not sure that's long enough for you to be feeling like you do.

Your first memories of him were wrapped up in this band, though your first impressions of the man himself were less than flattering.

A forensics nerd, and musical theater geek? A baseball jock _and_ a rock star? It seemed like a punch-line to the world's worst joke. You could tell that even he himself didn't know where he belonged; that he wasn't sure whether he was liked for himself, or for who people thought he was.

You've heard the girls talking, in whispers and giggles hushed behind their hands. You know what they're saying, even when you can't hear their words, because it's the same loop that's been running non-stop in your brain.

You're the one with charisma to burn, Bobby's got sun-splashed good looks that kill, and Dave, well... Dave has the sensitive tortured soul -- a single glance at his lyrics would tell anyone that -- hidden behind a shield.

You found it one night, when you weren't really looking...and lost yourself.

You're at a post-prom party -- it's your senior prom, all of you; Axium's been booked to play; and you're there as a sort of audition-slash-try-out.

All too quickly (and, as you'll discover, as things around him often do), things erupt in total chaos.

Bobby is off in a dark corner of the ballroom with his date, apparently attempting to devour her face. Matt and Anthony are dancing with their girls to the schlocky shit the local DJ is spinning before your set. You're stag by choice, though you're still subconsciously grappling with the _real_ reason why...and Dave's girlfriend has just unceremoniously dumped him, right there on the dance floor.

You watch him watch her as she stalks away with her friends, alternately laughing and scowling at him over their shoulders, and the stunned, empty look in his eyes is almost too much for you to bear.

He turns away slowly, heading toward the exit, and you follow.

You're positive he know you're there, and you're even more certain that he's trying to shake you, and you know for a fact that he's pissed at your persistence when you refuse to be lost.

But he never says a word until he stops in a dimly-lit corridor and slouches against the wall, glaring at you sullenly.

"What d'you want, Jeff?"

You shrug slightly as he fishes for something in the inside pocket of his suit coat.

"Just makin' sure y'don't do anything asinine," you reply, even as he does the most monumentally stupid thing ever, and pulls a silver flask out into the open.

He shoots you a withering look at your sharp gasp. "Relax, newbie; there's no one out here to tattle," he growls, tossing a swig back.

You watch the face he makes and the shiver that shoots through him as whatever-it-is in the flask burns its way down his throat, and then eye the flask suspiciously as he holds it out to you.

"Vodka," he croaks, his voice harsh from its aftereffects. "Odorless, colorless, tasteless... The perfect refreshment."

"Where did you get that?" you ask as you accept the open flask. You wave it briefly under your nose, wrinkling it at the fumes.

"Mom's boyfriend. Soon-to-be-step-dad, if you believe him," he replies with a one-shouldered shrug. "Gin, white rum, vodka... It's easy enough to nip a little bit of just about anything, but those three? You take what you want, fill the bottle back up with an equal amount of water, and nobody's the wiser." He shrugs again and looks away, scanning the hall quickly before looking back to you. "You drinkin' or not?"

You take a quick sip and shudder at its strength. "Neat trick," you rasp, thrusting the flask back at him. "Where'd y'learn that?"

"Indiana, a couple years back," he answers, taking another sip. You watch his lips purse as he suppresses another shiver, and this time you don't hesitate to take the bottle when he hands it over.

"Spent the summer with my dad -- my _real_ dad," he clarifies, and you know how that feels -- "Found out my older brother was really sick... And I just had the worst time making friends until this weird kid down the block, I dunno, took pity on me, or something. Anyway, he showed me that trick, and it's worked ever since." He glances around the hallway again and spits on the carpet. "Grenvell only ever drinks his booze mixed with water or on the rocks anyway -- it's not like he's gonna notice, and he goes through the bottles quicker, which means I get to start over sooner."

Something about the way he snarls the man's name makes your skin crawl, and you don't think you've ever heard him talk about anyone in his family but his mom and his brothers, and you think about the rumors you've heard, and you picture Dave's mother attending his every musical and forensic performance, and the pointing and whispering that made her hold her head just that much higher...

But you know better than to question that.

Instead, you ask a safer one.

"Do you do this often?"

A negligible shrug is your answer this time as you pass the flask back. "Often enough," he replies quietly. "The less I have to think about certain things, the better, sometimes, y'know?"

And watching his pouty bottom lip as it molds to the mouth of the container, you're convinced you know exactly what he means.

After passing it back and forth several more times, you'd swear that someone's turned up the heat in the building, or that your jacket's too heavy, or _some_ thing, because your face is hotly flushed, and you can feel a prickling of sweat on your forehead.

Dave's cheeks are as red as yours feel, and his eyes are starting to glaze over, to soften, and he's smiling broadly and laughing a little too freely at things that aren't really that funny, and you can see why he likes to drink -- he slips into another role, becomes a completely different person, more open and confident and so much more appealing...

And it suddenly bothers you that he's so adept at taking on those roles, at pretending to be someone else...

"Guys?"

Bobby's voice carries softly down the hall, and you both look up sharply -- you, straightening up from where you're doubled over with laughter, and he, from where his hands are braced on his thighs to keep him upright.

Bobby's expression is unreadable, but his tone remains quiet and gentle as he speaks. "C'mon, guys, they're waiting for us to play," he says, studying the pair of you as you walk his way, stumbling and weaving and bouncing off each other. "And please, Dave, for God's sake, don't get caught with that flask tonight, hmmm?"

This is, for some reason, the most hilarious thing either of you has heard all night, and Bobby turns and walks back to the ballroom, trailing you both in his wake.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Dave takes a detour to the refreshment table as you head onstage, and you arrive at stage right just in time to see his jaw tighten as the crowd shrinks ever-so-subtly away, clearing a path for him to pass.

He places two glasses of punch on the lip of the stage and heaves himself up, carefully guarding his side where the flask is tucked away. He flashes you a tight grin as he pops to his feet, and carries the cups to the amplifier hidden in half-shadow behind you.

"Jeff, c'mere," he calls in a low voice.

You wander over obediently, catching a brief flash of silver as he pulls out the flask.

You shift closer to shield his actions from prying eyes, and he gives you an elaborate wink as he pours.

Stashing the flask in his pocket, he hands you your glass and tucks you under his arm. "To a good show," he murmurs, raising his cup for a toast, and you smile as you respond in kind.

"Let's go get 'em," he murmurs, giving your shoulder a squeeze as he shoves you lightly away.

Your hands are trembling slightly as you bring the guitar strap over your head, and you feel his eyes on your back as you plug yourself in. You turn to face the audience and spare him a sideways glance -- he's standing with his head bowed, hand wrapped tightly around the neck of his guitar, strumming a few chords to himself.

He must feel your gaze too, for he looks up, just once; and you see that one final flash of _him_ before the Rock Star slides into place, and he takes a step forward to the mike.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

You feel like your face is splitting in two, but the grin you've had plastered in place since the first chords rang out refuses to go away. Your first time onstage with a band -- a real _band!_ \-- and your head is still thick with the wonder of it all; the applause still ringing in your ears...

The DJ's music is too loud and you can barely hear yourself think, but that doesn't stop Dave from chattering on.

"So, anyway," he's saying, "I mean, _Tony,_ man, maybe joining the service... His life's got _purpose_ , man, he's gonna _do things_ with his life. And Matt, now; he's got the right idea, too -- he's getting th'fuck outta this place, even if he is goin' t'Iowa, the poor fucker -- it might as well be light years away from here... But me? Shit, Jeff, I'm playing it _safe,_ I'm following, not leading -- _following_ you and Bobby and your sorry asses to CMSU, like a God-damned puppy, because it's close by, it's the right thing to do... It's _safe,_ man... That's all it is..."

And you can see his eyes growing moist, and the very thought that you might have a weepy as well as chatty drunk on your hands is vaguely horrifying at best. So you distract him -- the only thing you can think of to do.

"Hey, Dave!" you say, just a little too brightly, "Let's go for a walk."

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

"You've been watchin' me, haven't you," he says suddenly, and the flush creeps up your neck as your wrench your eyes away from his dick at the urinal next to yours.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," you lie, struggling to keep your gaze averted as you finish up and tuck yourself away. You move quickly to the sink, scrubbing furiously at your hands as though it might wash away the truth.

"Yes, you do," he insists, joining you at the washbasin. "You've been watching me for six months now, Jeff, and don't think I didn't notice..." He ducks his head and glances at you sideways, his eyebrow lifting curiously. "What do you see, Jeff? Anything interesting?"

"I see _you,_ man," you reply after a beat, trying to figure out where this is going. "The real you."

"The real me," he repeats, frowning slightly as he turns your words over in his mind.

"Yeah. The one you're trying to hide..."

He meets your gaze in the mirror. "You think so?"

You nod. "Yeah."

He drops his gaze and falls silent, remaining quiet as you both dry your hands and stumble out of the bathroom, down the darkened hall.

"...Do you think anyone would like him?"

You halt in your tracks, tilting your head at him. "What?"

"The real me, whoever that is," he mutters, stuffing his hands into his pockets and shrugging his shoulders. "Would anyone like him?"

Your eyes narrow. "Do you?" you deflect, and he actually laughs.

"I dunno, man, I don't know who he is," he replies, raising his eyes to yours. "You're the only one who sees him..." His voice trails off, and you watch his eyes go liquid and dark.

"Do _you_ like him?" he asks softly, and he steps closer, his breath warm against your cheek.

You're pretty sure that he's asking a different question from the one you're answering, but that's not stopping you from grabbing his lapels and dragging him in for a kiss.

It's a hard kiss, with the full strength of three years of frustration behind it, at the distance that had stood between you, at the time it took for him to notice; and six months of longing laced through it, for the hours of sitting side by side with him, learning his music, giving him your own, and never once had Dave seen -- truly _seen_ , truly understood -- the way that you were looking at him.

His mouth drops open beneath yours from shock, and you slip your tongue inside. He makes a soft noise in his throat, and suddenly you're pulling him along, dragging him by his jacket as you back down the hall, trying each and every doorknob until you find one that's unlocked.

It's a utility closet, and it's dark, and it's perfect for now, so you yank him inside without breaking your kiss, and pin his body to the door with your own.

He wrenches his mouth away from yours, gulping in a giant breath as you move on to his neck. "Jeff, what--" he gasps, then "--Oh!" as your body arches against him, and a loud groan as your hands drop to his hips, grinding your pelvis against his.

He bucks against you, hands gripping your upper arms tightly, as you latch onto his throat. Biting down hard, you suck furiously at the skin beneath your teeth, and his breath stutters past your ear. You use your shoulders to shove his torso against the door and begin pawing frantically at his belt.

Your frustration turns to triumph as the buckle parts and falls open. Your fingers immediately set to work on his fly, strained across the growing bulge beneath it.

He's panting heavily, his fingers tightening and relaxing reflexively as you work, but he says nothing, making no attempt to escape.

The only reaction he shows at all is his ragged breathing, and the jolt of his hips forward when your knuckles drag across him as you draw his zipper down.

You kneel slowly, mouthing your way down his chest over his shirt, brushing his clothed erection with your fingertips as you complete your descent.

He shudders at your touch, and you glance up at him despite the darkness, wishing you could see his face or look into his eyes.

"Are you all right, Dave?" you ask hoarsely, and shake your head (though he can't see it) when he only grunts in response. "Answer me properly, please -- I have to know if this is all right."

He curses aloud, his hands clutching at your shoulders. "Fuck! I'm fine, I swear..."

"You want this?" And you're sliding your hands below his waistband, and the heat of his skin is burning your fingers.

"'Do I want this,' he asks..." Dave barks with laughter, tightening his grip painfully. "There better be at least a hand job on the other side of that question, Shrout, 'cause swear to God, if you stop now, I'm gonna kill you..."

And the roughness of his voice matches the heat beneath your hands, and you lean forward to mouth his hardness through the layer of cotton separating you.

His hips surge forward to meet you, and he chokes on another groan. "Jesus _fuck,_ Jeff, please!"

You respond by pressing your forehead to his belly and gripping the fabric and elastic at his waist. Slowly, torturously so by the sound of his growl above you, you ease his pants and underwear down his thighs.

And your face is _right there_ as his cock springs free and bobs upward to meet you, and your fingers dig into his thighs as the musky scent of his sex surrounds you.

Impulsively, you touch the tip of your tongue to his flesh, licking a short, wet stripe up his shaft.

The noise he makes is a combination of a whimper and a moan, and you decide right then and there that you just _have_ to make him make that noise again.

You pull back, and his hold on your shoulders tightens further, digging into your flesh to the bone. "Don't you fucking dare," he snarls, pushing his hips forward desperately.

Your hands close over his hips, shoving them back and pinning them back against the door. "Gimme a minute!" you snap, fighting for breath as your heart hammers in your chest. "Lemme figure this out, okay? I've never..."

You snap your mouth shut, but the words unspoken may as well be flashing neon hanging in the air between you.

"You've never done this before," he breathes, slackening his grip. "Oh my God, Jeff..."

"Shut up, Dave..."

"Oh, my God," he repeats, and now his voice is quivering. "...Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why...me?"

And you're stumped. Why indeed? "Why not?"

His fingers flex on your shoulder, and you sigh softly, your breath ghosting across his skin.

"Because I want to, Dave. That's all."

"You want...me?"

"Do I--You talk too damn much, y'know that?" you reply, without a hint of rancor. "Isn't it enough that I'm here?"

His reply is lost in his groan as your hand closes around the base of his cock, and you measure his length with a tentative stroke.

"Isn't it enough that I want to do this?" You run your thumb over his weeping slit, coating the velvety softness of his head with his wetness, and slide your hand back down his shaft, carefully taking the head into your mouth.

You hold it there briefly, accustoming yourself to its shape and feel. Emboldened by the noise he makes, you bob forward, taking as much as you can into your mouth before hollowing your cheeks and pulling back.

"Isn't it enough that I care?" you murmur, and you swear you hear him stifle a sob as his whole body shudders.

"...I don't know why you would," he whispers, and he sounds so fucking broken that it makes you want to cry.

"Somebody has to, Dave," you whisper back.

There's a long pause as he considers your words, and then you feel his fingers brushing your cheek, trailing along your jawline, combing through your hair... Cupping the back of your head, he gently pulls you forward.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

For something you've never done before, you're apparently quite good at it.

The thought makes you snort with smug satisfaction.

You back off his dick with a soft wet 'pop', mapping the ridges and veins of his flesh with your tongue as you work his shaft with your fist.

His fingers tighten in your hair again as his hips jerk forward involuntarily. With your forearm, you shove him back and pin him against the door.

"Fuck!"

His curses are drenched in equal parts frustration and need, and he's panting so hard you're not completely convinced he isn't crying.

You sit back on your heels and work him lazily with your fist, occasionally giving random licks to his balls or his shaft or his glans, always light, always quick...

His grip relaxes in your hair and tightens once more, his knuckles pressing against your scalp to direct your mouth closer to the head of his cock.

"Jeff, please -- I need your mouth on me... _Please_ put me back in your mouth..."

And God, that begging is so fucking hot, but it only makes you want to prolong this, for as long as you can. You don't want this to be over too soon...

It's strange to be wielding so much power from such a subservient position.

And it's even more terrifying to realize just how much you're enjoying this.

You cup your other hand around his scrotum, hefting his balls in your palm, enjoying their warm heavy weight as you massage them lightly between your fingers and thumb.

"Jeff, come _on,_ " he whines, and you slide a finger over the nearly-hairless patch of skin behind his sack, pressing in firmly, just once, and releasing.

There's a sudden hitch in his breath as his hips jolt towards you and his cock jumps in your hand, and you've never been more grateful for those health and anatomy classes you never thought you'd find useful.

"Oh God, do it again! You've gotta do it again!" he's pleading, voice raw and breathing ragged. "God, Jeff-- _fuck!_ "

This outcry is followed by a stream of obscenities which explode from his mouth as yours closes around him once more.

He's leaking so much it almost dribbles into your mouth as you suck him, and it's the weirdest thing you've ever tasted, but this is the strangest thing you've ever had in your mouth, so you try to get over the bitterness and concentrate instead on the sweet sounds you're drawing from his throat.

You can feel him trembling, and your arm is sore from holding him back, so you take pity on you both and let go.

And he's trying to hold his hips still, to let you do the work, but he can't help his involuntary thrusts forward. He hits the back of your throat by accident and gasps an apology, and though your mouth floods with a mixture of saliva and his juices, you fight down your gag reflex and drive on.

What you're lacking in finesse, you're more than making up in enthusiasm, and his breathing suddenly goes erratic and you swear he's growing bigger in your mouth.

And then you press your finger up into that spot behind his scrotum and hold it, massage it, and his head hits the door with a crack as his spine arches and his balls tighten against his body. He's suddenly whimpering and panting and tugging at your hair and trying to push you away but you're latched onto him tightly and you're sucking as hard as you can and you're determined to see this through to the end, because you're not going to be one of those cock-teasers...

He makes a noise that sounds like he's screaming with his fist jammed in his mouth, and you feel the first contraction beneath your fingers and the first pulse of his orgasm fills your mouth and all you can do is pull back, slacken your jaw, and swallow as fast as you can.

When he's done and you've milked him dry, you pull back and release him, tucking him away, and he slumps against the door, leaning his hands heavily on your shoulders for balance.

"...Did you just swallow?" he asks softly, and it comes out suspiciously like a sob, his voice faltering and shaky.

"Yes," you answer quietly.

"Holy shit," he breathes as his knees give way, and he slides down to the floor.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

With him taken care of, you're becoming more aware of your own, um, rather pressing problem...

Your clothes rustle as you shift position, grunting softly, and it startles him out of his sated daze.

"Are you... Should I... Let me..." he whispers haltingly, and you feel him fumbling for you in the dark.

"No!"

You know you'd answered more sharply than you'd intended, and there's frozen silence as he pauses, and you can almost feel the confusion and hurt rolling off of him in waves, but you weren't gonna be one of those guys who expected or demanded reciprocation, either.

"No, Dave," you repeat, gentler this time, "I'm okay, I'm good... Look, why don't you head back to the hall and find Bobby, okay? He's probably wondering where we are..." You rise from your knees and find his hands in the dark, pulling him to his feet. "I'll be there in a minute..."

He makes a soft noise of protest, but you don't allow him to press the issue. You find the doorknob and open the door, nudging him out into the corridor. Squinting against the sudden light, he glances back at you uncertainly.

"...Just give me a minute, okay?" you ask softly.

"...Okay..." he replies, and you close the door, leaning back against it with a shuddering sigh.

And then your dick is in your hand and you're stroking it for all you're worth, your teeth tearing at your lower lip to keep silent; and you're picturing him down on his knees with his mouth wrapped around you, and you're coming, hard, and you hope to God that it dries on the floor before the janitorial staff finds it in the morning.

You give yourself a moment to catch your breath before tucking your dick back into your pants and slipping out the door.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

He's slumped against the wall again, half-way down the hall; forehead braced to forearms and arms braced against knees, and for all you know he's either ill or crying or both, you can't tell...

He doesn't look up as you approach, and keeps his head bowed as you crouch beside him. You're not even sure he realizes you're touching his shoulder until he raises his head, and his expression is dazed and uncertain and a little scared.

"...What did we just do?" he murmurs.

"Nothing," you answer softly, brushing the hair back out of his eyes. "It wasn't a big deal, Dave, it's okay..."

He blinks at you a moment and nods almost imperceptibly. "Thank you," he whispers, and the last word almost rises like a question.

You smile reassuringly. "Any time," you whisper back, and lean forward to kiss him.

You know he can taste himself from the way he hesitates, just the slightest bit; but then his fingers knot in your hair and he drags you closer, deepening the kiss.

You just brace your forearms on the wall, on either side of his head, and you let him.

You break apart only because you both need to breathe, and he's panting when he says "Holy shit," and his voice cracks just enough to twist your heart.

He's leaning into you slightly now, and you're feeling this weird sort of protectiveness toward him...but that's something to ponder later.

When you're sober.

If you remember.

You climb to your feet and extend your hand. "C'mon, Dave -- let's go."


End file.
